Birthdays were always shared.
Two cakes sat mid-table,
‘Happy Birthday’ was sung
with two names instead of one.
I did not like being a twin,
having a sister the same age,
always being labeled more
as a composite, having
a shared identity, a part
instead of being a whole.
I felt as if I was diluted.
I did not like the fuss,
being different than the other
boys who blended seamlessly
together at school when I
was singled out. My sister
was the devout one,
unquestioning whilst I
was the opposite, the dark
shadow in contrast to her light.
My world was an unlit room.
It was so for most of our lives,
obedience versus rebellion,
extrovert versus introvert,
traditionalist versus radical,
she a lover of boundaries
whereas I busted far too many.
My sister has been dead now
for a decade. I miss her,
my dear twin,
the counterbalance to me.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
a poet,in school most come to know
very much a poesy traditionalist
with lyrical musicality did persist
dawn dual duel
two poets
a face-off duel joust
free verse rhyme verse
a modernist traditionalist
mull and muse tell it true
prompt a reaction lay it out there
lover of words, jarring lover of pattern, rhyming
readers response individual readers all delight alike
anything goes on loose lines strict punctuation and meter
memories jogged and jangled memories lovingly recalled
stark and confronting language beautiful nice melodious words
leaves reader's questions unanswered readers cherish the poems like songs
10 free steps 10 syllables
bang bang
both dead
duel done
babel babble
I thought about doing some experimental poetry;
you paste words here and there
making a shape though keeping it bewildering.
You have to look at it upside down or from right to left,
but I really don't dislike poetry that much
to try it out.
I'm not a traditionalist, just old,
I sleep pushing words around
to make them fit over an imagined camels hump
which is dumb being as I haven't yet figured out
what a poem is and camels are ornery.
I guess that many poetic lines are an experiment,
a chemical fuse leading to a laboratory accident
set to explode
when most of the world is not looking.
I Am Troubadour...
I am troubadour;
the singer and the swinger
of ancient lyrical lines,
as I inscribe them with my pen.
I am traditionalist;
of writing down many thoughts,
inscribing them on parchment skin
the feelings of inner self.
I am the smith;
a crafter of dexterity
in using many points of view;
when putting down on paper.
I am storyteller;
the one likes to relate
and tell tales of the past,
when sitting at my post
as a new verse unfolds.
and as for all of this
I am the lover of many words,
I am troubadour
and the scribe of writing down,
which effectively
comes from within my mind….
Francis Cooper - Mac
A haibun reply:
I envy you, hope it has been inspirational for you, and reading your last haiku I think it has! My concern, or argument for no title is a traditionalist based ideology, for if a haiku does not paint a paint a picture, or as I said, 'Speak for itself' then it will struggle. My haibun for this day of May, spring nearly done. I am really thinking, 'Done in'!
seasons falling foul
climate change a threat to spring...
insects all confused
I sat comfortably observing nature, macro wildlife, far and few between. Today no butterflies, then I reflect, it's mid-morning, the sun still warming, defrosting the cold winter spring night. Mid-day life stirs, a holly blue, a large cabbage white, doomed. Already extinct in my garden the wall brown, not seen for over twenty years. I'm filled with despair, what fruits will summer bare? I sit pondering pollution; why do we humans leave things until it is to late, left until the last moment? Plastic bags killing giants of the oceans, microplastics' probably, slowly killing us. Oh, my apologies I digressed.
hot days freezing nights
summer winter both in spring...
wildlife confounded
traditionalist
stoic
genius:
influence
status
myths:
rhythms
sensations
flashbacks:
legendary
unique
alive:
passionate
procreate
survive
Tonight I will write
About light—
With meaning clearly
One of blossom,
Needing no catchy phrase
For illumination,
Nor word associations
With fancy twists
And tightly packed
Lofty configurations…
I simply take off
The tinted glasses of
Dimming,
Polymer combination the
Modern choice,
But I have been a traditionalist
Most my life,
And reveled in the classic
methods
When choosing shading separation
And only lately realizing
Word the flaw
In flawless articulation
Silence golden when seeing clearly.
I will not use
Glisten and gleam,
Gush of azure sky
When floating high—
Or set to earth
Amidst gardens, my brightly buzzing
Idling nature,
More like bees happiest to flit not fly
With their noses—I hope they have one—
Not poke or pry
But savor each nectar-brush
Leaving only sacred dust
The true pollen of God’s florescence
My own favorite roses…
The Orangutang:
There once was a traditionalist,
Who in his ignorance had missed
The beauty of youth,
The ever-changing truth!
He's a typical fundamentalist!
The Traditionalist:
"I can't stand these kids and their slang!
They are just looking for a bang!
Their rhymes are funky,
But so are monkeys!"
- Did he just call me an orangutang?
"These darn kids and this gosh darn slam,
It may flow, but it's still a scam!
If it ain't metered,
Then it's petered!
Why waste your ink scribbling flimflam?"